


Of Halos and Horns

by Witchly



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Afterglow, Angels, Appreciation for unmasked beauty, Arthur Conan Doyle - Freeform, Autumn, Cuddling, Devotion, Engagement, Fallen Angels, Fluff, Fluffiness, James Moriarty - Freeform, JiM - Freeform, Jim Moriarty - Freeform, Jim is a sweetheart but only for Sherlock, Jim is insecure too but loves Sherlock fiercely, John Keats - Freeform, Keats, Kisses, Love, M/M, Morning, Morning Kisses, Morning after making love, NOT OOC because it’s how I portray him (:, Oneshot, Poetry, Romanticism, Sheriarty - Freeform, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Sherlock is insecure, Sherlock isn’t perfect and neither is Jim, Short, Silver Wings, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle - Freeform, So I don’t want to hear your shit, Softness, Sunlight, Symbolism, Tenderness, These boys really do deserve each other, They really are the Ying and Yang to each other, and sherlock, and that’s what makes it all so good, baby boys, because they’re perfect for each other, cute shit, in their own, jimlock, poem, proposal, sherlock and jim, sleeping, strange ways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:22:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23789281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Witchly/pseuds/Witchly
Summary: I edited an old, unpublished oneshot and created a new thing for it with borrowed excerpts— so its technically new and old! Jim wakes up to appreciate everything Sherlock is and questions how he could be so lucky to have him after a night of passion sparked by a proposal. Sherlock is insecure and so is Jim, but Jim reassures Sherlock in the softest of ways. I also dedicated this to my best friend, Meg! She’s an absolute sweetheart and needed some cheering up as well, as I know she adores Sheriarty as much as I do. And if it’s not clear, the poem excerpt in this is written by John Keats! Jim is just quoting him.I hope you enjoy reading!
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & James Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes & Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty
Kudos: 31





	Of Halos and Horns

What were the limits of sentiment and when did it begin? Was it possible to live without it? And who created it just to heal and break hearts? It was a terribly lethal chemistry that could murder even the strongest of spirits, but also mend them if made right. 

The sun cracked through ebony blinds and crimson curtains, pouring thin beams of light of what could reach the inside, into the darkness of the bedroom. It cast shadows of objects upon the wall and bed, the dancing, shadowed images of trees blowing outside, ghosted over a quilt, where two slumbering lovers curled up beneath as close as two can be, providing each other warmth from the chilling air of late Autumn. Birds were singing their native tunes like a choir of angels for the new day, feeding their young, rushing to and fro among their kind.

To one of the more sensitive sleepers, the birds were much too noisy, and ripped him from dream to reality. His eyes fluttered sleepily and a soft groan escaped him as he slowly moved his hands to rub his eyes. Jim had slept rather wildly that night, and so, his hair was a disheveled crow’s nest, no better than a mock Medusa. 

James Moriarty glanced to his side, his paler lover at his side, still slumbering away, immune to the sounds of the morning bird ritual. He had to smile at the sight of his beloved; Sherlock Holmes was quite beautiful, and it was no different in his state of recharge. His rosy cheeks and his halo of dark curls and morning light, framing his face ever so sweetly— he was the very picture of art itself. A masterpiece, one could say. He was an angel painted by Michelangelo upon the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, entangled in the crimson sheets of Jim’s bed. He could drink him in forever and never be parched again.

The criminal simply couldn’t help himself. How could he neglect such beauty before him? He never looked purer, without the taint of the world’s perceptions staining him, nor Jim’s mischievous influence turning those white wings black with sin— though, it was only a matter of time. He was silver in the presence of notoriety, a treasure worth cherishing in the depths of his mind for the rest of his years. He couldn’t refrain. How could one help it? He wanted to kiss his face and every curl upon his head. 

But Jim only reached out and ever so gently brushed his thumb over the chiseled face, admiring Sherlock’s cheekbones as though he were cut and fashioned from ivory itself. He seemed to tell a story from his skin, to his eyes, nose, lips, and body that words could not capture. It told him: Sherlock was a forgotten god and Jim, along with the rest of the world, should be on their knees before him, drinking from the palm of his hand. 

It was apparent in the afterglow, Sherlock was evermore radiant this morning, as his plush, pink lips pursed and those baby blue eyes finally fluttered open to the lovely sight of his betrothed. The memories of the night before flooded to him, their night of lovemaking in moonlight. The darkness appeared like Vincent van Gogh’s _Starry_ _Night_ and Sherlock never looked purer in his arms. Jim had just proposed to him over dinner, and after sweet exchanges, Sherlock yearned to seal their perfect night with a passion that long burned in them.

Jim could cry. What in the world allowed him such bliss? The universe was awfully cruel, that made him spend years til the day he met Sherlock Holmes. But he was also so very thankful to it, for had Sherlock not made himself known to him, Jim would not have even lived to the age of 40. 

He would kill for him. Die for him. Worship him. He wanted his beloved to fall in love with life again, instead of drowning himself in nasty narcotics that poisoned all he fell in love with. He longed to see him smile and laugh, not be hung up on those who never really looked closely at the masterpiece, and could not see the meaning behind every brushstroke and color. 

Sherlock took a few moments before Jim’s touch made him more aware of his real surroundings, as opposed to his dream ones. The touch of the consulting criminal was warm, familiar, and eased him into awakening, whereas anyone else would’ve been reprimanded for even laying a finger on him in his most peaceful state of rest. Jim was his exception.

“Good morning, James.” whispered Sherlock, sleepily. He rubbed his eyes and slowly blinked, a yawn escaping him. He faintly smiled afterwards.

“Good morning, love.” replied Jim, his eyes filled with adoration all over again for the man laying beside him.

“So this is it, hm? Our engagement?” inquired Sherlock, thoughtfully.

Jim smirked. “Well, we have the wedding. Lest you wish to break my heart now and run away.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Think not. I’m perfectly content. Just contemplating.”

“On?”

“It’s surreal. To be getting married to anyone. I didn’t think I would ever draw someone to love me like this.”

“And why is that?”

Sherlock averted his gaze.

“You know how I am.”

“And you know how I am.”

“It’s certainly an incredible thing we’re doing. Never in my life did I foresee this happening.”

“Well, unless you can actually tell the future, Sherlock, that’s not possible.”

A fleeting smirk touched Sherlock’s lips..

“How could you even fall in love with someone like me?”

“I could ask the same question for myself.”

“But James,” Sherlock then turned his attention to the Irishman briefly, “I’m nothing grand. As much as I boast my intelligence, it’s all I have going for me.”

Jim couldn’t find this farther from the truth. He frowned and shook his head. “I refuse to agree with that, it isn’t true.”

“I’ve always been the outcast.”

“Look at who you’re talking to, you’re not the only one.”

“Yes, but— I don’t want to disappoint you. Bore you after some time. Like a plaything.”

“Sherlock,” Jim brought his attention back with a hand to Sherlock’s cheek, “as Keats has once written of _Love’s_ _Philosophy_ , ‘See the mountains kiss high heaven / And the waves clasp one another; / No sister-flower would be forgiven / If it disdained its brother; / And the sunlight clasps the earth / And the moonbeams kiss the sea: / What is all this sweet work worth / If thou kiss not me?’”

Sherlock’s cheeks immediately prickled with heat, as if all the blood in his body began to migrate to his face. Never had someone loved him so tenderly. He never felt worthy of it. He once thought love was a chemical defect, and now, look how much of a fool he was for love itself. 

“You are everything I could ever want in life. To Hell with my network, my clients, my employees, my wealth. It is worthless without you in it. I’ve never met someone as rich as you in mind and as beautiful as you in heart and body. You deny that you’re an angel, but I must disagree. Angels are also outcasts. We just happen to be among ordinary ones.” proclaimed Jim, cupping Sherlock’s chin.

The bashful detective’s eyes flickered around shyly, chewing at his bottom lip. 

“You’ve taught me how to love by surrendering myself to it.”

“...As you’ve taught me it can exist in the most unexpected places and people.”

“Then remember that I wouldn’t have chosen you if I didn’t find you immensely interesting. There is no one quite like you, Sherlock. I swear it on my life.”

“Then you better not die tomorrow.”

Jim smirked.

“I should hope not.”

And with that said, the criminal leaned in, smashing his lips to the curly haired man’s. A morning kiss to seal the troubles away. And onward to a day of celebration. What were the limits of sentiment and when did it begin? In the end, they all danced on puppet strings by the hands of Time and Chance. The two beastly things taught that every mortal thing had a tendency to evoke sentiment or feel it. It merely lied in one’s nature to act on it, instead of denying it for no good.


End file.
